A Trip Down the Rabbit Hole
by Chey119
Summary: "He's not dead. In fact, he's perfectly alive, alive as alive can be, and virtually scratch free—save for the several pieces of glass in his left arm and a nasty backache—but being drop kicked out of a second story window can do that." AU Jefferson/Emma; Post-Hat Trick- A confrontation and a mishap with the hat leaves Jefferson and Emma stuck in an aggressive post-curse FTL.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi^^ Apparently I've fallen in love with this ship and felt the need to write something for it. So please enjoy and I hope you can follow my train of thought and forgive me for any grammatical mistakes =_= As always, the characters belong to their respective owners.**

* * *

He's not dead. In fact, he's perfectly alive, alive as alive can be, and virtually scratch free—save for the several pieces of glass in his left arm and a nasty backache—but being drop kicked out of a second story window can do that.

And he's all prepared to pick up his hat and run, except his hat is nowhere in sight. There isn't anything in sight actually, except black, but he thinks nothing of it because black is an exceptional color and reminds him of felt and a very shapely tank top worn by a very shapely savior.

The darkness envelops him like a hug and he grins a wide grin because it tingles up and down his body like piercing jolts of electricity. It sends hot flashes of warmth over the expanse of his skin, but he doesn't mind the burn because it's like a lovers touch, soft and sharp all in one—and he hasn't felt anything in a long time, and it's nice to feel things—

And suddenly he's laughing because he realizes where he is, can feel the sharp tug-a-war of magic whirling around him, and the only reason he's here in this vibrating magical place between worlds is because _she_ believed. He made her believe.

The void around him reacts magnetically to his victory, jumps and crackles over his skin like tangible energy and it feels so good, this magic; it's warm and piercing and just a little bit dangerous and he likes it. His arms move out and he's floating, like an ethereal being (if ethereal beings floated; he's not sure on the technicalities), and it feels like his bones have been set ablaze with gasoline—as unsafe as that sounds—and he laughs once again because this isn't just magic, it's the _savior's_ magic. After all that's the very reason he's here. She made it work. _She believed._

The warm emptiness around him begins to shift and stretch and he feels the heaviness return to his body and in one collective breath the darkness morphs and the intense sensations sever and dull. He feels the solid weight of ground push against his chest and the rough grain of fabric beneath his cheek; he opens his eyes and sees a very elaborate rug, so elaborate it's crude with its flourishing patterns of blues and golds—reminds him too much of that House, and that House he would very much like to forget.

He tries to stand up, but stumbles and before he knows it he's on the floor—and that's the second time he's fallen today, and he would very much like to stop so he makes do with just sitting up. His eyes flit across the room and all he can make out through his still swimming head is a kitchen island, a popcorn ceiling, and a set of terrible floral curtains hanging slightly slanted over a kitchen sink. Whoever lives here has horrible taste, he thinks, as he frowns between the rug and the drapes. But then something else catches his eye and he can't help but let out a small laugh of surprise because sitting on the kitchen island is his hat—still pestered with dirt and small pieces of glass from his earlier fall, and_ oh she kept the hat, how kind_—

And then there's a small bubble of apprehension that settles in his chest as he realizes where he is and as if on cue he hears the rattle of keys and the door on the other side of the room squeaks open —he sees her, the savior, stark in her red leather jacket—the one he's become quite fond of, although not quite as fond as that black tank top, the one that reminds him so much of his hat.

She closes the door behind her and latches the locks, and he's a little preoccupied with the way she handles the bolts with such delicate hands that he doesn't realize she turns and spots him until she plasters herself against the door with a thud.

"You!" she screeches, finger pointing in disbelief. Before she knows it, he's on his feet and across the room in a matter of seconds, but stops short a few feet when her hand begins to hover over the gun resting at her hip—and _ah yes, there's our Sheriff Swan, all grit and determination._

"Emma," he says, hands up and out. "I'm unarmed. " He knows where her mind is going because he technically did threaten her with a gun earlier—it was an empty threat, he thinks, motivation to coax her into making his hat, but with the way her jaw sharply sets he doesn't think she cares to hear it. He will have to apologize for it later, if she doesn't shoot him first.

Her eyes set like steel on him and she jerks her head in his direction. "What are you doing here?" she bites out, and it's all he can do not to smile, and that's probably a really bad move, seeing as her hand pulls the gun out of the holster. "I asked you what you're doing here. How did you get in?"

He twists, hands still raised, and points over his shoulder. "You made it work," is the only thing that comes out of his mouth as he grins. Her eyes follow the invisible line of his finger and she stiffens as she spots the hat delicately placed on the counter, exactly where she left it.

"That's a lie."

"No it's not," he grits out sharply, irritation suddenly bubbling to the surface threatening to boil over. His hands fidget and he runs them through his hair to give them something to do—if only he had his scissors to sharpen, he thinks, although Emma probably would not appreciate that.

He takes a deep breath as he sees her shift defensively. "You did it. You made it work, Emma. You believed." And suddenly he's ecstatic again, because she's the savior and the savior believes and he can finally go home with Grace and—

"You need help."

He flinches.

"And you need to open your eyes!" He yells quickly, and he's across the room within a split second to grab the hat and make his point that it _does_ work, when suddenly a weight that smells distinctly like strawberries and adrenaline tackles him to the ground—and that's the third time he's fallen today, he notes.

She's on him so suddenly that it knocks the breath from him, and in the precious seconds that it takes for him to catch it, he realizes she has one of his hands in handcuffs—her and that damn sheriff tool belt— He notices the gun back in its holster, and she's silently pleading with him not to force her to use it, the way her big blue eyes keep jumping to his, but he has to make this point. She just needs to see the proof.

The fingertips of his free hand are tugging at the brim of the hat and he just needs to spin it just so, but she grabs at his wrist and refuses to let go. And he tries to not involve himself with this fight because their physical confrontation did not end well for him last time, so instead focuses his energy into grabbing the hat.

"Jefferson!" she screeches, and he stops for a split second because that's _his_ name, and it's been a long time since he heard someone say his name.

And he begs with his eyes, just like she did, and he chokes out "Emma please" because he desperately wants her to listen, but mostly because her forearm presses over his throat and is choking him. In the moment of hesitation when her limbs stop digging into him, he flings her off and twists the hat as hard as he can—and smiles because he knows it works and she will see the proof this time—

He sees it, black felt spinning in one fluid motion, and he grins because the hat continues to spin even after he lets go and the purple haze of the dervish twirls out and around them. And he just wants to show her the magic she created, the proof that she so desperately needs to see, but then the weight of her crashes on top of him again and he wonders why she keeps tackling him—_and oh yeah, she thinks he's a raving madman_—

He hears her yelp, because she _just now_ sees the purple fog of magic flying up out of the hat but it's too late, and the momentum of their bodies hurtle them toward the magnetic gate of the portal, and they're both a twist of tangled limbs around each other as they fall fall fall into the black void where tangible becomes intangible and magic crackles over their skin like lightning. It swirls around them like a sweltering heat and it's so much stronger than before and he thinks it might be because of her. The buzzing of the magic stings his ears and thrums through his body, and he winces because Emma frantically clings to his neck and where her skin touches his it feels like hot bolts of electricity—_of magic_—

And then there's a hard crack as his back makes contact with the ground and she lands on top of him, elbows first—_ouch_—and he's struggling to breathe when he hears her shuddering voice against his chest exclaim, "That did not just happen." He mentally laughs at her skepticism, but can only concentrate on the fact that this is the fourth time he's fallen today and how he doesn't think he's going to survive a fifth.

She lifts her head to look around and she's all tangled blonde hair and wide blue eyes above him. He watches her face, watches as the gears turn and shift in her mind and he's wondering exactly what she's thinking when her gaze flicks back to his and he gulps because _this_ is the savior—but mostly because her hand is dangerously low on his waist.

Emma pushes herself up and runs both hands through her hair as she takes in the tall trees around them, and he's pretty sure she's trying to find some stream of logic as to how they managed to get from the floor of her loft to this massive forest. The trees groan and creak in the wind and the leaves crunch and break under her feet as she spins and racks her brain for what he assumes some semblance of rationality. And then she turns on him so suddenly that her movements remind him very much of his hat, spinning, twisting, and full of magic but he doesn't dare say so because of all the social awareness he lacks, he does recognize anger—and she is _very _angry—

"What did you do?" she shouts, trekking over to him and he holds up his hands in innocence, although the pair of handcuffs dangling from one of his wrists negates some of the effect.

"Like I said, you made it work," he says from the ground, still catching his breath from the fall and her rather hard elbow to his chest.

"Jefferson," she groans, hands flying up in exasperation, clearly displeased with his answer, but he can only focus on how sweet his name sounds when someone besides himself says it. She fists her hands at her sides in what he hopes is an attempt to stay calm. "Fine, fine," she snaps, momentarily accepting his answer. "Where are we, then?"

He stumbles up and looks around already recognizing where they are—the trees, the dirt, the sky—it's been many years since he's been here, but everything is just as it was. He walks beside her and smiles and she's briefly thrown off guard, although her hand still hovers dangerously close to her gun. He clears his throat and with a flourish of his hand that he's sure she finds irritating he says, "Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, Emma Swan."

And it's all he can do not to grin manically when she blurts out "You have got to be kidding me?!"

A skeptic to the very last it would seem. He laughs.

* * *

**A/N: That wasn't too bad, was it? I don't write very often, so if you enjoyed please review. I'd like to know if it's interesting enough to continue. Thanks^^**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hi guys. I'm so glad you were interested in the first chapter, so here is the second from Emma's POV. There's a shift in writing style from the first chapter because I wanted to show how different Emma and Jefferson's thought processes worked-Emma's thoughts being much more logical and Jefferson's basically all over the place^^ Hope you like and please forgive me for errors. Commas and apostrophes are my worst enemies.

* * *

Emma paced back and forth in front of Jefferson. Her leather jacket had all but been abandoned, tied recklessly against the swell of her hips while her black boots trudged through the dead leaves of the forest floor leaving a thin trail of footprints near the base of a tree. She tangled her hands in her hair in an attempt to busy them, but quickly dropped them and spun on her heel to face Jefferson.

She frowned as she glimpsed his huddled mass sitting loosely against a giant tree root—hair still perfectly disheveled and clothes still pressed and clean as if nothing had ever happened.

Jefferson had somehow planted himself comfortably on the ground, legs crossed and hands splayed across his hat. His face had settled into a pensive twist as his nimble fingers twirled around the brim, concentrating delicately on the ebony felt. The thin chain of handcuffs around his wrists rattled as he inspected the orange lining of the hat. The circlets of metal around his wrists only served as an unpleasant reminder of what kind of crazy situation she had gotten herself into.

"It's either the handcuffs or I could point my gun at you the whole time," she had told him, hand not hesitating to pull the gun out of its holster.

"I'm not going to hurt you," was his only defense, and she was surprised at how sincere he seemed. But this was Jefferson, the person who drugged her, threatened her— the same person who invaded her apartment and now had them stranded somewhere in the middle of the damn woods. The odds were stacked exponentially against him.

Without missing a beat, she had said, "Y'know, so far your record is rather shitty." And that was all it took. He shrugged his shoulders and tightened the second handcuff around his free wrist, and soon after promptly set himself on the ground where he remained while Emma paced back and forth trying to find some logic of the situation.

Emma was fed up it with the silence. The quiet unsettled her and left her with too many unwanted thoughts about magic and curses, and as much as she would love to just march off and leave him there, sitting promptly on a tree root, she had no clue where she was, and hacking through a forest in the middle of nowhere did not seem the wisest of options—although at this point it seemed the only option—

"Are we just going to sit here?" she exclaimed, body shifting pointedly at Jefferson.

His gaze remained on his hat and his fingers continued fiddling with the contours of the brim. "From what I understood of our last conversation, I presumed you had taken charge."

She shifted, eyeing him suspiciously. "I am not the one that got us in this mess. You brought us here, now get us out."

"I beg to differ, Emma." His eyes dragged up to meet hers and she stilled. They didn't seem as mad as before, but his voice seemed flat and agitated. _Strange_—

She sent him a pointed look, "How exactly is this my fault?"

Jefferson sighed and stood, dusting off the top of his black jeans as the handcuffs clanked together. He gestured to her with his hat. "_You're _the one that tackled _me_ and sent us hurtling through the portal."

She frowned. Somehow he had failed to mention his sudden invasion into her apartment that started this whole mess. "We did not go through your hat!" she blurted. The last thing she wanted was for him to begin ranting and raving about magic. She had heard enough of it on their first meeting, and she certainly didn't care to hear about it on their second.

"Then pray tell, Emma, how do you suppose we got here?" He took a step forward, twigs crunching under his feet—_snap_ —His eyes were beginning to shift over the plains of her face wildly, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. _Almost manic. _

Emma's hands shot up in a bout of frustration. "I don't know. You could have drugged me and dragged all the way out here for all I know!" And if she were being honest with herself, she wasn't quite sure if she were joking or not.

That seemed to flip a switch. The hat dropped and his hands shot up to run roughly through his hair while his lips mumbled incoherent words under his breath. _Mad—definitely mad—_

"You," Jefferson drawled while pointing at her, "are missing the _point_." He emphasized his words with a click of his tongue and a sharp glance toward her.

He began walking slow, wide circles around her, and Emma couldn't help but feel that _this_ Jefferson was much more dangerous. This was so much different than when he confronted her in the tight quarters of his hat room, invading her personal space— _desperate_. But now his actions were not limited to the confines of a room, but rather the open space of a forest. As much as Jefferson's personal space issues were unwanted, when he was in close quarters she could keep a very delicate watch on him, determine his motives in those deep eyes of his that seemed to express so much. With him so far away, and with that manic look scrawled across his face, there was no telling what he could do.

Emma felt her hand instinctively drift above her gun holster. She didn't want to use it—God knew she didn't— but if she had to, she would.

"And exactly what point are you talking about," she continued carefully, angling her head at him as he rounded her right side.

She could feel his voice from behind. "First of all, there was no _drugging_ involved."

"Excuse me for my surprise," she intoned sharply.

He rounded on her front again and gave her a curt nod of the head, lips pulled down in a small frown. "I humbly regret that. I am sorry." Her eyebrows furled as he made his way over to his fallen hat and picked it up. _Was that an attempt at an apology? _The sudden shifts in his personalities— desperate, threatening, apologetic—were leaving her befuddled.

"Second of all, it _was_ a portal," he continued, briefly preoccupied with picking a stray leaf off the top of his hat. "Did you completely miss the part where the giant purple dervish sprouted up out of your kitchen?"

_Still a smartass, though, _she thought.

She did recall a flash of purple in the middle of her living room, a tussle in a swirling darkness, and then a hard landing on an even harder chest_—_but there had to be an explanation. _A logical explanation— _although it was escaping her at the moment_—_

_A dream_, she concluded. _It must all be a dream._

"Thirdly, we're stuck here."

Emma stared at him. A beat passed.

"What?" Emma glanced around, trying to wrap her mind around his words. They were in a forest. They could just walk out of it and go home, right? She cut her eyes back to him. "Come again?"

"I said we're stuck here." His eyes were piercing, and even across the distance she could feel their intensity as if he were standing mere inches away. It was unsettling. And intriguing.

Emma gestured around her, to the giant canopy of trees and the natural foot paths at their bases. "We can just walk back home. I'm not sure where we are but I'm sure it's within walking distance of_—_,"

"How many times do I have to tell you, we are not in Storybrooke anymore! We came here through the hat. You saw it yourself!" His voice was cracking. Desperate. Frantic.

Emma gritted her teeth. "Well just spin your damn hat and get us home! If you did it once, do it again!" She mentally kicked herself. Giving into his magical fantasies wasn't going to get them anywhere.

He looked taken aback. "I can't! That's what I've been trying to tell you!" Jefferson was growing ecstatic again, pacing back and forth in front of her, speaking more to his hat than to her. "Something's wrong. It's broken. We shouldn't have landed here first_—_it should have been the Hall of Doors but instead we're here and now it won't work. Not enough magic."

_Get it to work_ her mind yelled.

Emma watched in silence as he spun the hat on the moss covered ground. And it was just that, a moss covered hat. No sign of a giant purple smog lifting up out of the opening, no dervish, no magical properties_—just a hat and nothing more—_

Her heart almost clenched in disappointment.

Jefferson clung over the hat that was just a hat, mumbling under his breath and Emma could have sworn he heard him mutter the name "Grace."

She sighed.

Enough was enough. She had spent enough time chatting up this mad man. It was time to go home one way or another, magical hat or not_—preferably without._ "Come with me. Now. And walk in front," she demanded.

Jefferson glanced up, and Emma waved him over. "We're getting out of here. Now let's go."

"But the hat, how_—" _

"Oh for God's sake, Jefferson," she started, noticing him stiffen at the sound of his name. His eyes were not as manic as before, but they seemed sadder almost. "Forget about magic or your hat for one second, and let's get out of here the old-fashioned way."

"And that would be," he questioned, rising from the ground and steadily walking toward her. She poked him in the chest when he got just a little too close, and gently pushed him back. She was going to have to work out his personal space issues.

"Wandering around until we figure out where the hell we are." Emma grinned for a fleeting moment, when she saw a flicker of hope pass across his face.

He pursed his lips in mock agreement, "Sounds like a well thought out plan, Ms. Swan."

"Better than sitting here," she retorted.

Jefferson paused, comically pursing his lips. He nodded. "Touché," he agreed.

They stood for a moment, gathering their things, deciding on which direction to take. By the thick upper canopy, it was hard to tell what time it was, but Emma decided it probably didn't even matter. They would just settle on a direction and walk. _East_, she thought, _East seems like a good direction. _

_Which way is East...?_

Jefferson broke the silence and innocently held up his wrists, handcuffs dangling delicately between them. "Any chance you could take these off. They're not exactly convenient for a hike through the woods."

The key burned hot in her front pocket but she shook her head, "What's convenient for you may not be so convenient for me."

"That's not fair."

"Last I checked the person with the gun was in charge." She sent him a smart look, hitching an eyebrow, in which he replied with an equally smart hitch of his own.

"In a land of magic, Emma, a gun will not get you very far."

"Just watch me," Emma stated, re-tightening her jacket around her waist while trying to ignore the mention of magic. When she glanced up she couldn't help but notice the faint hint of a smile paint across his face and quietly linger in the dimples of his stubbled cheeks.

"That you will, Emma," he said, flipping his hat on top of his head and striding off into the dense willow of trees in a direction she could only presume was East.

Emma stood for a moment, lingering on Jefferson's fading figure elegantly walking among the trees—dark blue vest, black slacks, cravat wrapped neatly around his neck, and that damn hat—and for a moment everything seemed ethereal— _magical_—

She shook her head. _Nope, no magic. Just a crazy guy with a hat. _And in the split second it took her to snap back into reality, she realized just how far ahead he had walked. _Shit._

"Hey, where are you going?" She ran quickly after him, stumbling on unearthed tree roots. "I'm the one in charge here." A tree limb smacked her in the face and leaves tangled in her hair.

"You did tell me to walk in front. Did you not?" She could swear she could hear that damn smirk in his voice.

"Yes—no—just keep walking," she grunted, ducking under a low hanging branch, stopping short just a few feet behind him.

_I'm in charge,_ Emma huffed to herself.

Another branch smacked her in the face. She heard him chuckle from a few paces ahead.

* * *

**Please tell me what you think :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi guys! Oh man, this chapter took forever to write. Jefferson's perspective is a lot more difficult to write than Emma's :p Thanks to all the reviews on the previous chapters! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this story so far :D As always the characters don't belong to me, and god bless you for reading through all of my grammar mistakes! Enjoy!**

* * *

They had walked for hours, Jefferson noted, his ever meticulous mind attempting to count every precarious step. _Was it 12245 steps or was it 14241?_ He had lost count ages ago, specifically when he had stumbled over a hidden hole in the ground and Emma had cursed out his name and asked if he was alright. He had given her a curt nod of the head and waved her off, but after that all he could focus on was the tone of his name on her mouth, counting steps forgotten.

The forest showed no sign of clearing up. It was all one monochromatic color scheme of greens and browns, blended and smeared together into his line of sight. It was repetitive and exhausting, and if Jefferson was being honest with himself he was pretty damn tired. Twenty-eight years stuck in a house didn't exactly leave much room for physical activity—and he didn't count pacing up and down in front of his display of hats, trying to conceive a way of escape, as exercise— but Emma showed no sign of slowing down. A trait of resilience he admired and abhorred at the same time.

Especially his aching feet. He silently cursed himself for his choice in footwear.

He spied Emma in the farthest corner of his eye, blonde hair tangled with leaves and blue eyes frightfully determined. Her cheeks were flushed from the hike—_fuchsia_, Jefferson concluded, noting the blushed skin spread delicately over the planes of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She was tired too—he could tell by her heavy breathing that she tried to silence—although hell if she admit it.

_Emma Swan the savior_, he mulled. Jefferson wished she could see herself now, wrought with self-determination and vigor. He wanted her to see the magic radiating off of her, see its vibrancy illuminating like lightning, just like it did in Storybrooke—a memory of a yellow bug and a resurrected clock tower sang bright in his mind— but here they were, literally dropped into another world, and she still thought he was the crazy one. The handcuffs still slapped around his wrists were proof of that. Skepticism at its finest, he silently grumbled. He shifted his gaze back forward and stepped over a fallen log, grunting as the soreness in his feet rose up his legs._ 14257, _he dubiously counted.

He could hear her footfalls almost immediately behind him. Their walking arrangement was a precautionary measure, he knew. She didn't trust him, and wanted him in her line of sight; make sure he wasn't going to do anything crazy. He could make no promises.

Occasionally, she would yell out directions when he wasn't going where she wanted, steering their course in a different direction. At this point he was sure she was attempting to navigate them east, what with her constant steering toward the right, but he failed to mention that in fact they were actually headed north. A quick glance at the abundance of moss on the rocks and trees told him that— a detail he picked up on in his prime days of portal jumping —

Their hike was silent, except for the crunching of the leaves beneath their feet. Emma had no time for talking, and yet he had all the time in the world for it. She had been the only person in twenty-eight years he had a conversation with. His mind craved stimulation; instead she had dismissed him and left him with the inner workings of his own mind. And that was a very dangerous place, Jefferson decided all too long ago. He had too many conflicting realities colliding into one giant mass of hysteria in his head—Hatter, Wonderland, Storybrooke, _Grace_—

He nearly stopped in his tracks at the thought of her. Of that dark blonde hair and that sweet smile, and those big brown eyes with so much hope. Of the autumn cloak she always wore, and the homemade toy rabbit that forever clung to her chest, wrapped firmly to her with delicate berry stained fingers—she always had a knack for picking blueberries and coming home with her fingers dyed violet. She was the one thing he lived for. _The only thing he lived for, _his mind corrected bringing up dark thoughts from the corners of his mind. "_You're stuck here now!_" his mind screamed. "_Just like in Wonderland! The hat doesn't work!_"

Jefferson's breath hitched as he tried to bring his focus back to finding his footing. _14279_, he counted, trying to control his breathing. _14280._

"_The hat doesn't work, the hat doesn't work,"_ his thoughts chanted, momentarily distracting him and causing him to slip on the wet leaves of the forest floor. Thoughts thrown aside, he landed with an ungraceful _oomph _against a hard patch of twigs, a particularly sharp one catching the sleeve of his shirt and leaving a small rip. He frowned. It was a nice shirt.

The hat tumbled off his head and into the dirt. _Good riddance._

"Oh, hey," Emma started, carefully stepping over to him. She picked up his hat and tucked it under her arm—he scoffed, the damn broken thing would never get away from him. She offered a hand, but he was too preoccupied with the way her blonde curls clung to her neck. "Are you alright?"

He waved her off, gritting his teeth as he found a tree stump to prop himself up on. "I'm fine," he grunted, dusting off the leaves that clung to his vest and jeans. "Just need a moment." He rubbed his hands over his face, wiping away the sweat that seemed to settle right at the hollows of his eyes and then propped his elbows on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath.

The crippling thoughts of Wonderland and Grace had all been colliding painfully since he realized that the hat, once again, no longer worked. A problem he did not expect to face again since Emma made him a new hat in Storybrooke.

Emma leaned herself against a tree opposite to him, arms crossed, watching him carefully. "Are you sure you're okay?" she said, untangling a leaf from her hair and then pushing her curls over her shoulder—_a blonde waterfall_, he mused—

He tilted his head, raising his eyes to meet hers, eyebrow flitting up in the process. "I said I'm fine," he said, words grinding out hard. _I'm fine. I'm always fine._

"Well, you sure don't look it," was all she said, suspicious eyes cutting into him, hat dangling from one of her hands.

"Yeah, well I'm sure I don't look like a lot of things," he muttered back, yanking his cravat out from between his shirt and vest and using it to wipe the rest of the sweat off his face. The hot mist of the air clung to the scar on his neck and sent it burning—just another constant reminder of his misfortunes. He jumbled up the paisley cloth and shoved it into his pocket.

Silence filled the air until Jefferson heard Emma shift.

"Hypothetically," Emma started, eyes lingering on his scar a beat longer than he knew she intended. He could all but guess what she was thinking when her eyes finally drifted back up to his, clouded. "If we are, as you put it, in another land," he scoffed at her use of air quotes, "how do we get out…hypothetically?"

He gave a small huff of laughter as he stood, "Well, _hypothetically,_" Jefferson said, sending her a pointed look that she disdainfully rolled her eyes at, "we would have to find another portal."

"And where exactly would we find this other portal?" she asked skeptically.

"No clue."

She faltered, pushing herself off the tree she was leaning on. "Surely you must know something?"

"Oh I know plenty, but finding another portal…that's tricky business. The only portal I've ever used is the one you're holding in your hand, and it seems to be obsolete at the moment." He frowned and silence filled the air.

"Well, then how do you know there's another portal?"

Jefferson was all but running his hands through his hair now, wanting her to understand. He had quite literally showed her all he could at this point. "Because every world has one. No one knows why, they just do. The problem is finding one. They are quite literally hidden in plain sight."

"If you try to tell me they're invisible I swear to—"

Jefferson cut her off with a scolding "No, Emma," in which she replied with a disapproving stare. He took a few fast steps toward her and pointed to his hat. He watched her lips pull down in a frown as she shoved it into his outstretched hands. "Portals must contain large amounts of magic for them to work, and those large amounts of magic must be contained in something, like an object." He raised his eyebrows at her as he gestured to the hat.

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, "So you're saying that a portal could be any object in the world."

"Basically." Jefferson stepped back, putting a good distance between them—he knew she was uncomfortable; the way she stiffened up and shifted her weight sharply when he was too close was proof enough of that. He waved a finger at her, "You know, for someone who doesn't believe in magic and other worlds, you sure are asking a lot of questions."

"Expanding my horizons, I guess," she muttered, sending him a dark look.

_More like grasping at straws_, he thought. He noticed the way her eyes narrowed whenever he mentioned magic, and knew she was not convinced. She was just playing along for now.

"How do you know all this?"

A question for the ages, he thought. He was cursed with knowledge, after all. "I am what one refers to as a portal jumper," he stated matter-of-factly. _Was a portal jumper_, his mind corrected. His gaze languidly fixed on hers as he spun on his heel, a flourish he never quite rid of since his days working with Rumpelstiltskin. He quickly decided to refrain from mentioning the imp, or Mr. Gold as she knew him—too many questions and too many unwanted memories of the past—

"A portal jumper?" Her hand planted itself firmly on her hip while the other rose in question in a way that only served to remind him of a teapot—a blonde, slender teapot with a delightfully confused frown—although, teapots did not frown in his experience and if they did probably not half as well as Emma Swan.

"Yes, that's exactly what I said." One eyebrow dipped, "Please try to keep up, Emma." You're the savior after all, he thought, and saviors pay attention. Or do they? He really didn't know, but considering the sharp way she clenched her jaw and fixed her gaze on him, he figured he shouldn't ask. He had already been hit in the head once by her— a flash of a white telescope rang bright in his mind— and he likely wouldn't survive a second. She had a mean right hook.

Her silence spurred him on. "Anyway," he started, "I made my living jumping from one portal to the next. There are a very limited amount of portals in each world, all difficult to find, and I quite literally had one in the palm of my hands." Her blue eyes transfixed on the hat in his hands, and he smiled at his pun. "And there are plenty of people willing to pay a portal jumper for a few errands here and there."

"Oh," she chuckled, a sound he definitely was not expecting. He was prepared for a scoff or a roll of the eyes, gestures that were becoming quite familiar, but not laughter. It was bright and loud compared to the dim quiet of the forest.

Jefferson stilled, watching the small way her golden hair bounced and her shoulders heaved as she laughed. "What?"

"You were a thief." Not a question, a statement. She was too sharp for her own good.

He pursed his lips and dismissively twirled his hand in the air, "Thief is such an ugly word. More like an unorthodox businessman."

"You mean a crook."

"I mean someone who was just trying to survive." His days before Grace were not his proudest moments, but he was young and reckless back then, gullible for a few extra coins—

"I've been known to have light fingers," she mulled, arching an eyebrow. That definitely caught his attention. Of all the things he had assumed of her, a thief was not one, not _Sheriff_ Emma Swan, officer of the law. Imagining Emma breaking the law was like imagining Regina knitting, and as hilarious the latter might be it was just off. "That's all in the past, of course," she concluded with a huff.

Jefferson nodded, "Of course, can't have the sheriff stealing from local food drives now can we?"

Emma frowned, "I didn't steal from food drives." _Oops_.

"I wasn't implying that you did."

She lifted up off the tree she was leaning on and jerked her thumb to her right, "Are you about through with your break, because we need to get moving." The way her jaw was set, he knew it wasn't an option.

He straightened. "And where exactly are we going? Because I'm pretty sure you have us walking in circles."

A small beat of silence passed before she stalked over to him, arms swinging as she walked— _oh, she was irritated_— "What makes you say that?" Her hands planted themselves on her hips as she steeled her eyes at him. _Well, this conversation is making a complete one-eighty_, he thought.

"The moss." If she wasn't so angry, he would have laughed at the way her face glazed over in confusion.

"What?"

Jefferson sighed. Explaining himself was beginning to be exhausting. He spun in a wide circle pointing at all the trees, "Moss grows on the north side of trees." He pointed to her, handcuffs rattling as he did, "But you keep gradually steering us to the right—attempting to head east, I presume?" Her lips thinned and he knew he was correct. "We've just been moving in one wide circle."

To say he was shocked when she shoved him was an understatement. Jefferson had watched her carefully as she processed this bit of information—stiffening of the shoulders, jaw set at an angle, hands clenched at her sides— but then suddenly he felt a weight on his chest and he was being shoved backwards, hat falling aside. He stumbled for his footing and straightened up quickly, sending her a panicked look. "What was that for—"

"Dammit!" she yelled over him. "Why didn't you say anything? We could have been out of here hours ago!"

"You're the one who insisted on being in charge!" he yelled back. "And I don't think you would have trusted the guy in handcuffs for directions in the first place!"

"You don't think I would have considered that bit of information if you had just told me?! God, you are so thick!" Her hands were thrown up in the air in exasperation. His were held defensively out, in case she decided to shove him again.

"I'm thick? You've literally been dropped into another world and still can't accept it!" _Dropped in another world, witnessed magic_—_ what other proof are you looking for, Emma?_

A scathing laugh belted from her mouth, "You're asking me to believe in something I don't think exists!" _But you've seen it,_ he wanted to shout but that thought was thrown aside as she shoved the stray hairs from her face and stomped over to him. Jefferson quickly backed up, not used to her being so abrupt, but she grabbed a fist full of his vest and stopped his retreat. "All I want to know is how to get the hell out of here!"

Before Jefferson had a chance to respond, their bodies clashed painfully together and they were being hurled upward. He heard Emma gasp as they shot up, knotting together in a mass of tangled limbs. His face collided hard with her shoulder, and her knee sank sharply into his gut.

He could vaguely feel the mesh of netted rope beneath his fingers, but he was too preoccupied with spitting out the abundance of Emma's hair that had slithered its way into his mouth and nose—she smelled of watermelon—

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he heard Emma hiss right above him, her chin resting sharply on top of his head. A quick glance around and he could tell they were nowhere near the ground. The heavy canopy of leaves surrounded them, the only clear visual being the ground nearly fifty feet below. They were strung up in a trap, like animals. His mind whirled. If a trap was laid out, did that mean people were still here, in the Enchanted Forest? He thought Regina had sent everyone to Storybrooke with the curse—

They're bodies tangled awkwardly around each other, his handcuffed hands trapped between the mesh and her back, while her legs knotted between his. One of her hands was caught beneath his side while the other clutched the net for dear life. There was a power struggle as both attempted to get untangled to no avail.

"What is going on," she mumbled, breathless. He could feel her heart hammering in her chest as his face rested on her shoulder, and he was sure she could hear his just as well.

"Seems to me we're in a bit of a predicament," he mumbled into her collar-bone, attempting to shift into a more comfortable position. Her skin was hot and sweaty from the air.

"We were already in one in the first place," Emma grumbled.

"This problem seems to be a little more immediate," Jefferson retorted.

A _tsk_ escaped her lips as she tried to quiet her breathing, "Who puts a trap in the middle of the damn woods anyway?"

"Hunters," was his only response. He eyed to the ground, his vision swimming from the height. _No way we'll survive that drop._

"No," she slowly replied, shaking her head as if she had just figured something out. "This net is way too big for game. This net was intended for something else." If hunters were not hunting game, then what were they hunting?

They sent each other knowing looks.

"Let's get out of here," Emma started, moving quickly to free her legs.

"Couldn't agree more," Jefferson replied, moving just as fast.

* * *

**Hope you liked :D**


End file.
